


Twist The Stopper

by blotsandcreases



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Animal Abuse (mention), Gen, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Internalized Misogyny, Past Child Abuse, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-19 01:05:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11886681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blotsandcreases/pseuds/blotsandcreases
Summary: Can you bottle a storm?An AU where Cersei's children have swapped genders: Joffrey is born a girl.





	Twist The Stopper

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this [amazing gifset](http://blotsandcreases.tumblr.com/post/164484151572/sansalayned-cersei-lannisters-children). Please feel free to notify me if I should add any tags.
> 
> ~~Also I am no trained writer and this is my first time writing first person POV, I don't know if I'm doing it right.~~

I have only one brother. A stuffy insufferable younger brother. My younger brother, the Crown Prince, the eye of the storm. Should Father and Mother continue their lifelong past-time of driving each other to rages that sooner rather than later one of them breaks the other’s bones and thus sire no more sons, and should my brother die without issue – then, I am heir to the Iron Throne. As it should be. Not my younger brother, but I, the eldest, _the_ storm.

I smile at my brother’s betrothed, the Lady Sansa.

We are doing needlework in one of Winterfell’s tower rooms. A week of visit has taught me that Lady Sansa’s joys are as simple as the furnishings of this drab tower room. Compliment her hair, or her gown, or her shoes, and she will think you’re as good as any gallant knight, come to save her from being helpless enough to get caught by the enemy. I am beginning to think there’s nothing in that head of hers but muddy snow and insipid thoughts on embroidery.

She has praised my needlework thrice now, so I widen my smile. “Thank you, my lady. My good septa –” the damned pie-breathed pea-brained creature who believes that I should bottle up my storm to be less than my brother’s, to be less than my father’s – “urges me to excel in the fine womanly arts.”

“Your Grace is better than excelling,” Lady Sansa says. Soft voice and soft smile. Her two companions simper with lowered eyes. Her sister is still a small sullen ball at their fringes.

“Though to tell you true, Lady Sansa,” I continue, “I shall leave all such work to handmaidens when I acquire my own household.”

Lady Sansa blinks. She smiles at me, still so gentle that I am tempted to string that slow curving like I string my bow. She murmurs compliments on how I must excel in keeping household as well.

Does she understand anything? I shall have a steward. Neither my father nor my mother keep household.

If my brother’s betrothed has teeth made of courtesy and tongue made of senseless chatter, I hope the gods will reward my patience by granting her a womb made of barrenness and miscarriages.

Like the Lady Arryn.

I see Lady Sansa is not so far from her lady aunt. Their minds must be the texture of spoiled pudding, with only popular songs and knitting patterns to shape them. I hope she takes after Lady Arryn’s womb as well.

“Your work is notable, I must say,” I allow. 

Lady Sansa’s two companions, a girl with brown plaits and another younger girl with red curls, sigh and giggle at Lady Sansa. Out of the corner of my eye, Lady Arya hunches some more over her fabric, continuing her sewing in poky gestures. 

Poor younger sister. I smile down at my embroidery, a roaring lion and my initial J. Lady Arryn is a younger sister as well. I have my own younger sister, who is currently being disgusting and throwing up her lunch. They are ever less beautiful, less interesting, and less likely to be remembered.

I turn to the Winterfell septa. “It delights me to know that my brother’s betrothed is quite accomplished. You must be proud of Lady Sansa’s progress.”

The septa resembles my brother’s horse. She starts neighing. “Your Grace honours us. Lady Sansa is an excellent student, and she improves every day. Seven bless us that Lady Arya follow in her footsteps.”

I glance at the scrawny Lady Arya. There is nothing remarkable about her, no grace whatsoever, except for how she is clearly uncomfortable here. As I am.

The septa is still neighing.

I sew a little, nod at her, smile. Nod at some ladies of my mother’s and Lady Stark’s households, smile. 

Smile.

They all start neighing.

Keep smiling, keep smiling, go on, keep smiling.

I fare better when I smile. I can have anyone eating at the palm of my hand when I smile well and curtsey well.

And not just any smile. But dimpled smile. Gentle smile and girlishly delighted smile eating each other, and both of them winning.

With so many eyes, my smile cannot be jagged like lighting forked in the sky. My laughter cannot roll and shudder and tremble, with so many eyes. Even if I shoot my arrow true, piercing a previous true arrow on the red eye like a rampaging victorious flag, or else crushing open a hunt’s head, its life’s blood tossed away by the storm.

It is the secret to being the true heir.

I used to be sore about being the eldest yet not being the heir. Is my father not the eldest of three and king? Is my mother not the eldest of three and queen? 

And being sore, I used to wish I was a prince. Not just any boy – any boy could be Father’s bastard. But the eldest prince. I thought that I should wear breeches and insist that I train with my brother and be a fearless hunter like my father.

I thought I should be just like Father. That’ll show them. 

That’ll show Mother, who told me with a twisted mouth that I will only hurt myself by impatiently going against the unfairness of the gods. That’ll show my Uncle Imp, who said that I will be better off being a trueborn royal girl than being a girl in armour and sword belt, for the world is cruel to grotesques. How dare he prevent me from reaching for what I want just because his arms are too short to pull him farther from the ground? 

And that’ll show Father. 

For my just passed name day I ran to him to see him already mounted, and he laughed his red-faced laugh when I asked to join the hunt. He laughed and laughed and told me to stop being silly. Ladies hawk, he told me, but since I was forbidden near a hawk since that incident – and he laughed again. And the golden banners laughed in the laughing snapping wind.

That’ll show him.

I can be like Father. A strong king. Father defeated Prince Rhaegar at the Trident, crushed him with a hammer in vengeful fury. Father won his vengeance and his crown. Father takes what he wants.

I wanted a kitten to be my playmate, once, so I took it from the cat’s belly.

It was messy work.

I wonder why kittens live, yet Lady Arryn often cries and loses her babies?

There is something so fascinating, seeing Lady Arryn’s dried-orange lips curl and squirm as she bawls. She makes such a fuss, for a baby she hasn’t even known yet. But what did I expect? Lady Arryn has never been clever. She even looks so dull. She presumes to make herself more interesting by daring to share my dressmaker. No sumptuous gown can make her as effortlessly engaging as I am.

I still don’t understand why Father did what he did. I tried to explain that the cat was the vile bad-tempered one anyway, and that he himself crushed open vile Prince Rhaegar’s chest. I was strong even then, like him.

But Father pulled my arm so hard that I dropped my kitten, and he was roaring, thundering. He grabbed a stick of some sort and he hit my legs. Then he roared at my septa to raise my skirts and lower my hose, so he hit my legs’ skin. Hit and hit and hit until there were biting strips of blood, and Mother was screaming and pushing at him, and Lord Stannis was trying to assist Mother away from Father.

But Father is strong. He cannot be pushed. He pushed my mother easily enough.

Mother. She loves my brother. That I can understand. She was there when my brother attended his first lesson with the maester. My brother loves books about knights and heroes in histories, so Mother had him given the best books and the best knight toys. My brother loves card games as well, and board games, so when my Uncle Imp gave him a set of cards for his last name day, Mother not only let him keep it but also outdid Uncle Imp by giving my brother a board game from a Volantene galley.

Poor Mother. Lately my brother has taken to talking back at her. Disagreeing with her. Displeasing her. He is not impudent because he is Crown Prince. When I do those, I am impudent but I am really just cleverer than he is. He also loved the company of Lord Arryn, when the Hand was alive, and also Lord Renly, Lord Stannis, and ugly Lady Shireen who reads the beautiful books with him.

And I can tell that my father is proud of how energetic my brother was in his duties as Lord Arryn’s new squire.

My father watched when my brother first practiced jousting. Merely play jousting, with a pony and a stuffed monkey. My brother almost fell off his pony but Father stood there, visible across the yard with his height and his gold-and-black cloak, keeping up his loud encouragements.

I am tall as well. Lord Arryn once said that I am tall for a girl my age. I can be energetic as well, and strong. I don’t talk uselessly like my brother is inclined to do. I do, not talk.

When I skinned my little sister’s hawk, I only wanted to practise at being good with a dagger. But Father said he didn’t want my reasons, so he ordered for Moon Boy’s drum stick and hit me again. But I let out no cry. I stood there biting my lip, my cries trapped and pooling in my mouth even though they burned. I am strong.

Mother says no one would want a wild princess. That I should stop trying to be my brother because he and I are not the same person, and because the gods can be merciless like that.

Mother is weak like that. She cannot even defend herself from Father. She always needs Ser Jaime to be her sword, and his sword is sworn to protect the king. Ideally. 

I wonder if she took the initiative to learn arms as I have.

Now I know better. To be the true heir I have to be as strong as Father, stronger than Mother, and better than the both of them combined. To be the true heir I simply have to be the best. I am the best not only in riding and archery, but also in courtly graces and singing and playing and dancing. If I am not a wild princess, with so many eyes, then I can have some freedom to practise archery.

My first successful shot was a doll. The doll of that weakling Robert Arryn.

Little Robert’s twitching bouts are both horrid and fascinating. I was curious to see him twitch, to see him go from laughing that clogged-nose giggle to crying and twitching. He called my lips “fat as sausages.” 

I wanted to pluck him from the bug-ridden dried-up tree, like under ripe peach I would not lower myself to devour, and crush him to a pulp.

One “misaimed” shot, his doll exploding into cotton and silks, and he was drooling into his collar and twitching like a trout out of water, and his cow mother was in hysterics.

So I practised archery. I practised and practised and practised. I was sure to be the best in needlework and courtesy so that no one would mind my archery much. If I sustain this, I might move to dagger. Then to sword.

I don’t know what Father thinks of it, but he never hits me nowadays. Lately my mother has taken to watching me from a covered bridge whilst I practise but she never talks to me about it.

What Mother did talk about was that I might soon be betrothed, with this trip to Winterfell. She said she won’t permit it, that I’m too young. She said she’d rather have me betrothed as late as twenty even if the only one left suitable enough to my status would be whittled down to Robert Arryn. She said that it won’t matter because whatever happens I would be marrying down anyway.

I confess that the prospect is distasteful. But I should think that Little Robert is weak enough that he cannot hit his wife. And if he tried to hit me, I would put an arrow into one of his dolls and send him twitching to his grave.

But Mother’s fears proved to be for naught. The betrothal for this visit turned out to be between my brother and Lady Sansa.

The septa interrupts her neighing to call out, “What are you talking about, children?”

I turn my head towards the children, relieved to stop pretending to be interested in kinds of fabric. 

Lady Arya snaps her mouth shut and scowls. 

Lady Sansa replies in her soft voice: “Our half-brother.” 

Why does she talk as if she were always in a sept? Like fingernails dragging sharp against pillow linen? It grates on my ears.

It reminds me of my septa. She told me that it is more appropriate and pleasing for a lady to speak gently, just as the Seven commanded. I have never been doggedly devoted to the Seven, however. My septa told me that it was the gods who said that good women should never be angry.

That made me angry. My father’s House words are _Ours is the Fury_. Some starving and delirious septon or septa must have transcribed the gods’ words by mistake.

My father tells me that I am prone to fits of tantrums. He calls it unseemly behaviour and a bother for a princess. A big bag of bother, he calls it, and talks of sending me away to some castle. To be a cupbearer. Mother doesn’t like it, and insists that if I should be cupbearer to anyone it has to be to no less than the Lord of Casterly Rock.

I should not like it. I cannot stand cowards, men who would sit and talk and steeple their fingers and talk some more. 

The disturbance in the tower room distracts me from my building anger.

The Winterfell septa is now standing over Lady Arya’s chair, shaking a piece of fabric. Lady Arya herself is dashing for the door.

“In front of the princess, too,” the septa is saying. “You will shame us all!”

The girl turns to me, her lip wobbling and her fists clenched. Unflattering red splotches stain her cheeks, and I can smell the desperation and humiliation in her. Poor girl. To be so plain and even then lacking in grace and accomplishment whatsoever.

Her voice is stilted. “By your leave, Your Grace.”

I slowly put down my needle. I smile brightly at her. “I think not.”

She’s biting on her lip now and hiccupping back sobs as the rest of the ladies stare at her. Why should she not suffer the fine womanly arts like the rest of us?

“Princess,” the septa begins, “a hundred pardons, Your Grace. A hundred pardons, may you find it in your gracious heart to forgive this misconduct. Lady Arya –”

I hold up my hand to cease her neighing. I stand, my sweet smile still in place. “I think you ought to excuse Lady Arya and myself, Septa Mordane.”

I approach Lady Arya. The tower room has gone so silent that it seems the only sounds are the rustling of my velvet skirts. On my way I take note of how red Lady Sansa’s face is, no doubt embarrassed for her disgraceful sister. When Lady Sansa looks up, I catch her eye and widen my smile, and take Lady Arya’s hand.

Lady Arya jumps. I grip at her hand to keep her in place.

“I would like you to show me where you are going,” I tell her. “The good ladies will excuse us, and there will be no trouble with your lady mother.”

With many more apologies from the septa we step out of the room and find my two guards side by side with three of Winterfell’s.

“Where were you planning to go?” I ask the girl.

Lady Arya is silent, swiping at her tears with bony knuckles.

“I asked you a question, my lady.”

“I only – I was thinking – it should be time for my brothers to drill in the yard. Your Grace.”

“Do you practise in the yard?” I know she does not, but I know longing to be doing so when I see it. Has any lady dared to initiate to practise before me?

“No,” she mumbles. “They won’t allow it.”

We are nearing the bottom of the tower steps. “In the Red Keep, I am allowed to take practice shots in the yard. I have my own bow and arrow.”

Lady Arya’s head snaps up. “You do? I mean, you do, Your Grace?”

She grins up at me when I nod.

Her grin widens when we reach the bottom of the stairs and she sees her wolf pup chained by the guard house. “Nymeria!” she exclaims, and starts towards it.

I grab her wrist. “No. We will not take it with us.”

Lady Arya tries to pull away, but I am stronger. “Nymeria’s always with me. She likes to be with me.”

“Not whilst you’re with me, I’m afraid. Dogs upset me.”

“She’s a direwolf!”

When she tries to pull away again, I grit my teeth behind my smile and do my best not to crush her bird-like wrist.

“Don’t you want to accompany me to the yard?” I say, my voice patient, as though to a brainless baby. “I only wanted you to accompany me to where the boys will be drilling. If you cannot, then I shall be bored.”

She opens her mouth, but I squeeze her wrist. Not to hurt – not with many eyes – but to remind her.

Smile, I remind myself. Keep smiling. Keep smiling.

“There’s only so much to do when I am bored,” I continue, watching her face. “I can only go to Lady Sansa again and we shall gossip like sisters, she is ever so delightful. Or I can only go to Lady Stark, my gracious hostess, and engage her in conversation.”

**Author's Note:**

> When not scrambling for coursework deadlines or daydreaming about fics I'm short on time to write, I'm over at blotsandcreases.tumblr.com sighing happily at all the great things. :)


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